


The Pitfalls of Affordable Scandinavian Furniture

by roane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Sex, First Time, Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot, Sex on Furniture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex on furniture always sounds like a good idea, until it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pitfalls of Affordable Scandinavian Furniture

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [belovedmuerto](http://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto) for a speedy beta, and for the good folks of the [Antidiogenes Club](http://antidiogenes.tumblr.com/) who had the chat conversation that gave me the title. (Specifically, the title phrase came from [breathedout](http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout).)

As stakeouts went, there had been worse ones. The time they spent the night crouched in the bushes in Hyde Park had been miserable: cold and wet, of course, and John ended the night with a broken clavicle thanks to an ill-timed tackle of a fleeing suspect. Then there was the one where Sherlock had the wrong person, and while they were watching the man's flat, the real thief stole thousands in jewels. Lestrade hadn't let them live that one down yet.

So in comparison, sitting in a darkened empty office really wasn't so bad. It was just _dull_. Jack Forsythe had come to Sherlock three days earlier with a story of blackmail—he was tired of paying for a youthful indiscretion and wanted Sherlock to find out who it was. Within a day, Sherlock figured out it was his brother-in-law, who had a load of gambling debts to pay. Easy enough then to look for proof. They managed to sneak into an empty office across from the brother-in-law's, and just had to wait until he left for the night to do a thorough search.

But the bastard was working late. Sherlock was getting twitchy. Twice he'd gotten up to pace, and John had hauled him back down. John glanced at his watch. They'd been waiting here for nearly four hours—they'd expected their target to leave two hours ago at the latest.

"We could pull the fire alarm," Sherlock said. "That would get him out."

"Yes, and bring a bunch more people in when the firefighters arrived."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. John could just see the outline in the dim light filtering through the tiny windows to either side of the door. "We'd be long gone by then. I can't just sit here any longer, John. How can you bear it?"

John settled back against the wall. "I have plenty of practice waiting for something to happen," he said. "What do you think most of combat is?"

"If something doesn't happen soon, I will go mad."

"Don't worry," John said. "No one will be able to tell the difference."

Sherlock rose to his feet again, and John caught at his arm to stop him. This time though, Sherlock pulled John to his feet instead. Sherlock pressed a single finger to John's lips, indicating quiet. John tried very hard not to think about how it felt, and tried not to think about what Sherlock might do if he snaked out his tongue and drew that finger into his mouth. Probably give him a lecture on germs.

Thankfully, Sherlock pulled his hand away before John could think much more about it. He crept towards the door and pressed his ear to it. "He's on the phone," Sherlock murmured. A moment later, "Oh bloody hell, he's ordering takeaway. He's going to be here all night."

"Well," said John. "I guess we settle in and get comfy again."

"I can't," Sherlock said. "I can't just sit here any longer." He turned away from the door, and walked over to John with quick, purposeful steps. With a single movement, he grabbed John by the front of his jumper and pinned him against the wall before swooping down to press his mouth to John's.

John's mind completely froze. It wasn't that he'd never thought about kissing Sherlock. He had, of course he had. He just never thought Sherlock had ever thought about kissing _him_. After a frantic second, he reached up and pushed Sherlock back slightly. "What the hell—?"

"John, we can't just sit here and do nothing. The battery on my phone is nearly gone. You've been eying my arse for weeks and frankly, I've gone out of my way to encourage you."

"You—"

"You seem, however, to be oblivious to subtler hints, so I thought I'd take advantage of our situation and be a little more forthcoming." He leaned down again.

"Hang on a bit," John said. "You're telling me that because you're bored, you think we should... what. Stand here and snog like a couple of teenagers?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said. "I think we should have sex."

John opened his mouth to say something, but realised he had no idea what he wanted to say. A man with good sense would get outraged, but thanks to living with Sherlock for the past nine months, his sense of outrage was considerably dulled. To make matters worse, his cock was enthusiastically in favour of Sherlock's idea. 

"You can't tell me you're not keen," Sherlock said.

Oh, this was such a bad idea. He was keen, and that was precisely why it was a bad idea. But then Sherlock was kissing him again, and it all seemed like a really good idea. A really _really_  good idea. He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his ridiculous, stupidly sexy coat and swung him around so he was against the wall. John crowded into Sherlock's space and pressed against him. Sherlock opened his mouth in a soft, appreciative groan, and John charged in, stroking his tongue against Sherlock's upper lip. Yes, John had definitely thought about this, but it was so much better than he could have imagined. 

Sherlock grabbed him by the hips and brought their bodies tight together. John could feel the beginnings of Sherlock's erection brushing against his belly, and ground his own against Sherlock's thigh in response. He reached up and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair and Sherlock reciprocated by sliding his hands around to grab John's arse. 

Their mouths met, clashed, broke apart, clashed again, both of them breathing heavy. In the dim light of the room, Sherlock's skin was pale above his scarf, almost luminescent. The sight made John's mouth water. Everything about Sherlock was just ridiculously lush and enticing, but his neck was especially so. He leaned in and just barely touched the tip of his tongue to Sherlock's pulse point. Sherlock's hands tightened on John's arse, and he hissed, tilting his head back. Taking that as a signal to continue, John kissed and nipped along Sherlock's skin. Sherlock suddenly let go of John's arse and reached for John's trousers instead. His fingers trembled as he worked at the buttons, so John shoved his hands away and started undoing them himself.

Sherlock curled his hands around the back of John's skull, holding him still for a furious series of biting kisses while John unfastened both their trousers. God, John's knees nearly buckled to feel the hot, swollen length of Sherlock's cock pressed against him, covered in soft cotton pants. He stopped fighting it, but went to his knees after all, to the sound of Sherlock chuckling softly.

"Oh, John," he said. "Is that what you want?"

"Yeah," John whispered harshly. "Let me suck you." Even as he said it, the words burned in his mouth and his brain, and realised there was nothing he wanted more. He looked up at Sherlock and could see only a shadow across the top half of his face, but his lips were parted and gleaming. This was it, John was really going to do this. He'd worry about what it meant later. He dragged his hands up the front of Sherlock's thighs, feeling the slight, fine quiver of the muscles there. He was trembling like a racehorse in the gate. John closed his eyes and tugged down Sherlock's pants.

He paused. They were on a stakeout, with a potentially dangerous criminal just across the hall eating bad Italian food, from the smell. And he was about to give his strange, infuriating, fucking gorgeous flatmate a blow job. Even though they could be caught at any moment. Even though it was dangerous. This was absolute madness. Sherlock gave an expectant groan, shifting his hips toward John, who grinned suddenly, his heart racing with exhilaration. He leaned in and rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's exposed cock before turning to mouth up the length of it.

It had been a stupidly long time since he'd done this, but it was all coming back to him now. Sherlock was so much more responsive than John would have expected. He would have expected a constant stream of critique in that low, slightly bored-sounding voice—definitely not that series of quiet gasps and soft moans when John did something especially pleasing. A look up confirmed that Sherlock was biting his lower lip fiercely, one hand hovering near his face as if ready to catch any sudden sounds.

The more John worked his mouth around Sherlock, the stronger the trembling grew in Sherlock's thighs "I can't," Sherlock finally said, sounding like he'd just run across London. "Can't stand up..."

John rose from his knees to a crouch, and pulled Sherlock over to the desk in the center of the office. He settled Sherlock against it and pulled him in by the hips once more. It took him less than a minute to bring Sherlock back to trembling, the movement harder now that the muscles weren't bearing Sherlock's body weight. John slid up and down the length of Sherlock's cock, nearly bruising his tongue against the hot, rigid flesh. His cheeks were hollow with gentle suction. When he felt one of Sherlock's hands curl around the back of his head, he knew Sherlock was close to coming.

Sherlock started to rock against his mouth. The desk quivered underneath him, and John put out a hand to steady it. His other hand curled around Sherlock's shaft, stroking in time to the up and down movements of his lips. The taste was bitter, a preface of what was next. Faster and faster, the desk trembling, Sherlock trembling, hell, John was trembling, until finally Sherlock made a muffled sound and his cock pulsed and twitched in John's mouth. He swallowed and swallowed, and kept licking until Sherlock reached down to push him away.

John sat back on his heels, feeling pleased with himself, and unbelievably aroused. He ran an open palm down his cock through his pants, aching for release, for Sherlock. Bracing himself on Sherlock's thighs, he pulled himself to his feet and leaned against Sherlock, worming his way in between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock looked down at him with heavy-lidded eyes, his entire expression soft and hazy. "That was... remarkable," he said. "Why haven't you done that before?"

"You git, I thought you weren't interested." John pulled him down for a kiss and was gratified to discover that Sherlock wasn't the least bit squeamish about it, but rather the opposite. John rutted against him for a few moments, then murmured, "Turn around."

"John, I highly doubt that either of us prepared for that particular eventuality. And while I don't doubt that we'll engage in that rather soon, I hardly think—"

"Shut up and turn around," John growled. "I'm not going to try and fuck your arse. Not here."

John didn't miss the tiny shiver, nor the quick way Sherlock turned around to face the desk. He filed that away for further consideration. For now, he focused on the sight in front of him: Sherlock, leaning with his hands on the top of the desk, arms spread slightly to bring him lower, his gorgeously round arse peeking from beneath his shirttails (and honestly, how did someone so skinny manage an arse like that? It wasn't fair), pants and trousers around his ankles. And in between, a long, white expanse of smoothly muscled leg. John stroked down the backs of Sherlock's thighs and stepped closer. He couldn't quite reach Sherlock's neck; the best he could do was to press kisses against his back as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, nudging his cock against the cool skin of his legs.

Sherlock parted his thighs and John slipped between them, just barely below the cleft of his arse, close enough to feel heat from Sherlock's perineum. He groaned softly as Sherlock closed around him, squeezing tight. He couldn't bear to move at first. The way his arousal had spiked, if he moved too soon it would end quickly. Instead he leaned over Sherlock's warm back, kissing and nuzzling wherever he could reach. Then he let go of Sherlock's waist and reached down to grab him by the hips. Slowly, so slowly at first, he started to thrust, feeling the tug and slide of his cock between Sherlock's legs, feeling the way ease just a bit as he started to leak pre-come. Sherlock braced hard on the desk, giving John something sturdy to thrust against. John angled his cock up just a little, shifting the drag from between Sherlock's thighs to almost between his arse cheeks. It was trickier this way, would take a little more effort. He pushed Sherlock down so his legs bent a bit, leaving Sherlock practically laying spreadeagle and face down on the desk.

Oh god, that was perfect. The angle was perfect. John whimpered and started to thrust between Sherlock's cheeks. Christ, he wished more than anything he'd known that something like this could happen. He could feel the little puckered hole rubbing against the shaft of his cock, and wanted to know what it might feel like inside. Just thinking about it sent a sharp spike of want through him, and he started thrusting harder. Sherlock gave a muffled sound, then braced himself more securely against the desk.

John couldn't stop, standing with his head thrown back and his hips working, relentlessly fucking into soft skin, feeling the tingling burn starting at the back of his neck. Harder. He needed harder.

Sherlock groaned, then said, "John?" The desk was rocking with their movements, and John didn't care. 

"Fuck, Sherlock, you feel so good..." Harder, and more. John felt as if his whole self might explode out through his cock.

"But John..." Sherlock was breathless. He was trying to tell John something. Let him. God, he was so fucking _close_. 

He was flying now, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut as he pounded against Sherlock's body. The movements were getting easier, more and more rhythmic, like Sherlock was thrusting with him. God, oh god, it was right there...

_CRACK._

Suddenly Sherlock wasn't bent over in front of him anymore, and John went tumbling after him, landing on top of him in an ungainly heap. The desk, or what remained of it, was underneath Sherlock in several rectangular chunks.

"Shit shit shit!" John scrambled to his feet and nearly tripped over his own pants. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock turned over with a groan. "I was trying to tell you that the desk was creaking."

John froze, suddenly aware that they were both pantsless somewhere they were not supposed to be, and had just collectively made a very large noise. Now that he was sure Sherlock wasn't bleeding anywhere, the giggles descended and he started trying to swallow them down. His erection had wilted, and for some reason the sight of it, limp and forlorn, made it worse. He clapped a hand across his mouth and made a strangled snort. Tears were forming in his eyes. He giggled through closed lips, pulling Sherlock to his feet from the middle of the wreckage. He started pulling up his own pants and trousers. "He had to have heard that," John said. "We have to get out of here."

"It's fine," Sherlock said.

"Fine, in what universe is this fine?" Now properly dressed, he crept towards the window and peeked out. In fact, their target was standing in the door to his office with a quizzical look on his face. John pressed himself back against the wall.

From the other side of the door, he heard the doorknob rattle. "Is there someone there? You all right?"

Sherlock pressed against his side along the wall, both of them barely daring to breathe. The dim room darkened further as the man pressed his face to one of the panes, cupping his hands around to see into the room. John pressed further against the wall. If he managed to look to the right just a bit more he'd see them...

The room brightened as he moved away. They heard him muttering to himself as he went back to his office.

John's shoulders slumped in relief. "Hopefully he's not going to call security."

"He won't," Sherlock said. "He doesn't want any more attention than we do."

"Lucky for us he's a criminal."

"Technically right at this moment, so are we," Sherlock said. They looked at each other for a moment, grinning.

"So we still keep waiting."

"Looks like." 

"You're mad, you know that?" John reached up and gave one of Sherlock's curls an affectionate tug.

"John?"

"What?"

"I think I'm going to get bored again, very soon..." His voice was close to John's ear, humid, warm breath and low, vibrating tone.

John shrugged him away. "No. Absolutely not."

"But the wall wouldn't give out," he said.

"No more shagging on stakeouts," John said. "I'm making that a rule, right now."

"But shagging elsewhere?" Sherlock sounded expectant.

"Bloody hell. We should talk about this at some point you know."

"Is that a yes?"

John laughed and pulled Sherlock down for a quick kiss. "Yes. But not here."

Sherlock curled against his side, snaking an arm around his waist and pulling him closer to whisper in his ear. "That leaves me no choice but to tell you everything I'm going to do to you when we get home..."

"Oh god." John swallowed.

"At least there I know I can trust the furniture."


End file.
